There is a gentle hiss of applause,
it is nearly complete; it is nearly so transcendental.
 
In the early morning, in amethyst hour by the mythical river,
we want to walk on the footprints of Dholavirans
the songs of mangrove birds are more intense than sonatas.
 
Maybe the river drinks and gurgles, ripples fall and rise; 
they always struggle for words of meanings.
 
The ruins slump into a frieze of sadness, beneath it the
lapping sound of something else without any
hint of hollowness or snarl from the bass.
 
Pitiless little flick-books of climate change and despair
meet with a reflex of hurt, recrimination, tears and blame.
 
The paleo channels know the history buried in the sand and silt
sunlight is gentling the imaginary painted boats, and the one 
longs for the king of Persia and his Triassic triumph.
 
There is also hope and warmth to be found in pages, other
stories to be written, the final refrain insists that.
 
The fabled boats lie on the bank standstill like swans, beak to beak,
the bird-calls echo differently.
 
We all want to be broken for one another
it is, lest we forget, still honed all the same in waking dreams.
 
(Dholavira is a Harappan City located in Gujarat India)